


Eight Nights

by byronic_heroines



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Male Dominant, Power Dynamics, Self-Discovery, intense chemistry, reluctant romance, sexual games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronic_heroines/pseuds/byronic_heroines
Summary: She has spent her life running from her past. He has spent his life drifting without roots. Neither knew what they were looking for. An heiress and a mercenary, their worlds couldn't be farther apart - but they do more than simply meet. They collide.(Tags subject to change with updates)





	1. Broken Horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've been writing together for a little while, but this is our first time really dipping into GoT. It's definitely new territory for us, and we're grateful for any feedback. Thank you so much for taking the time to read, and we hope you all enjoy!

_Standing in my broken heart all night long_  
_Darkness held me like a friend when love was lost_  
_Looking for the land that's hidden in the cross  
_ _The finders love_

_-"Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us"_

* * *

I look down. He is kneeling before me and he guides the black panties up my thighs. The lace itches pleasantly as it travels up the map of my leg. He stands then, his right knee cracking. He tells me to turn.

"Turn," he says. And I do.

"Spread your legs," he says. His voice is low. "Shh... spread... show me."

So I do.

He gently tugs the panties up so that the seam slips into my ass, and the silk crotch cleaves my secret place. I am on my toes for him, gasping and trembling, my hands gripping the filthy bathroom sink. It hurts and it makes me think of coming again. His thumbs slip under the edges, just beneath the cheeks, and he squeezes.

His hand is in my hair then, and I arch my back for him. My body bows - my naked chest thrust out, my ass pressed to him where it fits best.

I know what he wants.

He is the saddest man I will ever meet. The most dangerous man I will ever meet.

I have known him for eight nights. I have known him my entire life.

I have loved him for eight nights. I have loved him from the exact moment of my conception.

He pulls my hair with one hand. He feels between my thighs with the other. His cheek is against mine and his face is smooth. He watches me writhe in the dingy mirror and then he tells me what he thinks.

"You're my sweet girl...," he says. My hips buck. He continues to pleasure me with the hand between my thighs. " _Ñuha mērī dōna riña_ ," he whispers, over and over, in the language of my youth. "You'll do whatever I want…"

"Let me go." I barely recognize the voice as my own. His fingers tighten their hold. He wraps my long hair in his fist.

" _Daor_ ," he hisses, and I feel his arousal, thick and pulsing, pressed against me.

We will never get dressed this way.

I don't care.

My existence was aimless. My life has only had meaning for the week that I have spent with him. I am ashamed and I am proud. I wasn't raised to be this woman, but this is the only woman I am meant to be.

In only eight nights, I have become his wife. His sister. His sun.

I am also his protector, his partner, and his whore.

I am in love,  _truly_ in love, for the first time. It feels like dying.

"Sweet little girl," he says against my ear.

He is the moon.

* * *

_**Two weeks earlier** _

_Tywin Lannister is dead._

The message had come two days ago, delivered to my sorry little apartment on the outskirts of the reservation. I'd ignored it - stupidly - for the first forty-eight hours.

I receive plenty of bland correspondence from the company my family founded. New hires and releases, special events, letters about investments and portfolios and market prices that make my eyes glaze over.

They all live on the kitchen counter for weeks, until they go through the shredder.

For two days, it sat with the rest of my junk mail, unassuming and innocent. For two days, I had glanced at it, rushing past, thinking  _I should open that. I should read it._

When I finally got around to tearing into the envelope, fumbling one-handed with the paper while I balanced my morning coffee, I found the message was quite short. It was printed on the usual elaborate letterhead, and most of the page was blank. Just a few sentences squeezed beneath the header. But I'd read the plain words at least a thousand times.

Then I'd started another thousand.

I'd read them in the bathroom while I brushed my teeth, and stained the paper with water and toothpaste.

I'd read them on the secondhand couch in the living room at one in the morning, leather squeaking as I shifted, muted television flickering white in the background.

And here I am in my bed, huddled under the covers, reading them again. Shining the light from my phone over the unchanged letters, squinting down at them with bleary, heavy-lidded eyes.

You would have thought it was a best-selling novel.

_Tywin Lannister is dead. Please return to King's Landing at your earliest convenience for the execution of the will._

_Ever fondly,_

_Cersei Lannister_

_CEO_

_Dragon Glass Group, Diamond Trading Company Incorporated_

I narrow my eyes at the closing. It's ridiculous.

Unbelievable.

Impossible.

_Cersei Lannister_

_CEO_

CEO.

C. E. O.

The fine stationery crumples like wax paper in my fist. I throw it across the dark room. I fall back into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed and glare up at the popcorn ceiling. My heart pounds, a frantic bird against its cage of ribs.

Cersei Lannister. The CEO of Dragon Glass.

I knew the day would come -  _of course_  I did. I just wasn't… I hadn't… It was…

Sooner, maybe, than I had imagined.

The alarm clock on the bedside table glows like a bright red omen -  _3:43 am_. I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms.

Tywin Lannister may be dead, but I have a pile of untouched fire inspection reports waiting on my desk. I have a nasty case with an untraceable accelerant. I have calls with three different insurance companies. I have a nine o'clock meeting with Captain Moro.

I tell myself I don't have time for Cersei Lannister, CEO.

I tell myself that Cersei Lannister, CEO, has nothing for me.

I tell myself that I have work in the morning, that it's going to be painful, that I need to take a thermos of coffee with me, that I won't hit the snooze button on my alarm.

I tell myself that Tywin Lannister is rotting in the ground across the country, and that it doesn't change a thing.

I barely sleep.

* * *

The mesa is dark today. Storm clouds hang low and heavy over the horizon. I watch from the parking lot as their shadows spill across the pavement, across the undulating grass and thorny weeds.

The station is grey and quiet.

When I took the job as an arson investigator on the reservation, I was twenty-three. I was just married. I belonged there, and the halls felt like a second home.

Now I walk through the door, through the old lobby with peeling eggshell paint and sterile plastic chairs, with the administrative assistant who barely looks up through the smudged glass window…and it feels like maybe I  _don't_ belong here.

I swipe my security badge. I sling my bag across my shoulder. I realize I left my thermos on the kitchen counter.

Today will be long.

Today will be tiring.

Every day is, now.

My cubicle is tucked away in the very back of the station, under a flickering fluorescent light. Someone mutters a halfhearted, "Hey, Dany," as I pass, and I nod, not looking up.

I have twenty minutes before my meeting. I dump my bag on my desk. It's as messy as the rest of my goddamn life - stacks of papers, chewed-up pens, bent paperclips. A wrapper from a granola bar. A computer that's too old and too slow.

Until a few months ago, I kept a photo of my brothers beside it.

The photo is in the bottom drawer now.

My chair squeaks when I pull it back from the desk. Irri glares from the cubicle next to me, loudly tapping the spacebar on her keyboard a few times.

"Sorry," I mumble, dropping into my chair. I roll forward slowly. It squeaks a little louder.

She's a victim advocate. She works with them all day. She talks to them with a soft voice and uses soft words. She helps them fill out forms. She files their paperwork, and she gives them tissues, and she tells them she understands.

I think she's lying.

I think fire is easier to understand than people.

I  _know_ it is.

"Do anything fun this weekend?" she asks, eyes on her monitor, still typing.

She knows I didn't.

I flip through some papers that showed up on my desk during the night shift. Blueprints and old safety audits from the warehouse that burnt down months ago.

"Not really," I say. I pretend the papers are fascinating. I stare at a checklist, and read the line about  _proper storage of flammable materials_  five times.

"You  _look_ like you did." Her nails are acrylic, and long, and a simple neutral shade. They clack against the keys. "You definitely didn't get any sleep."

I try not to think about the letter. It's wadded up, lying on the floor near my dresser. I meant to throw it away this morning.

Tywin Lannister is dead, and I have bags under my eyes.

I ignore her. I glance at the clock on the wall.

Thirteen more minutes.

Today will be slow.

Every day is, now.

* * *

Captain Moro has never liked me.

His office smells like cigarette ash and sweat. He spikes his coffee with Crown Royal. When I walk through his door, he doesn't invite me to sit.

I've never liked him, either.

He looks me up and down as I stand before his desk. He taps his fountain pen against the wood. He makes a clicking sound with his tongue.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" I don't know what else to say, but I feel like I should say something. The air is heavy and strange.

He leans back in his chair, letting the pen fall to the desk. He inhales, and exhales, and his shoulders move with the breath.

"This is difficult," he says.

Something heavy lands in the pit of my stomach.

My thoughts scramble, tripping and tumbling. I pour over the past few weeks. No mistakes. No write-ups. No verbal warnings. I haven't even cut it close with a deadline. Unless there's something I don't know about...mishandled evidence, an unserved subpoena...

"You've been with us...a while." He drums his fingers on the leather arm of his chair. "I know it's been a hard year for you."

I swallow. The thing in my stomach churns and twists.

"You've done...good work." He seems reluctant to tell me that. "Haven't had a grievance since you joined."

He's quiet again.

I shift my weight from one leg to the other. The floor squeaks. The vent behind him rattles, pumping stale air through the room.

" _But_ ," I prompt. My fingers grip the hem of my jacket.

"But the...changes you're going through...raise some issues for us."

He's weighing his words carefully. As carefully as he can. He's picking them one by one, and putting them down gently.

He's talking about the divorce.

Everyone's always talking about the divorce.

That's who I am now.

I have been many things here. The girl from outside who married the Khal. The girl who was pregnant with his child, his longed-for  _son,_ an heir to his people. The girl who craved bacon and fried shishito peppers, and planned to keep working until her due date.

The girl who gave birth to a little corpse.

And now, I am the white-haired girl who left the Khal.

Moro isn't good at this. I don't really know what he's good at. Being quick, maybe. Being assertive. Being a little too sure of himself.

"We have a policy," he says. He  _is_  pretty good at those. Policies and regulations. Things typed up with nested bullet points. "A...very strict one. Regarding who we can employee on the force here."

I nod, like I understand.

I do. And I don't.

I'm the outsider. I've always been the outsider, even when I wore the Khal's ring on my left hand. Even when I thought I had found a home, far away from the city where my family fell apart.

The room feels too small. The storm outside is roiling and there's an eerie pressure in the air. It makes my skin tingle.

The thing in my stomach is still now, but it's ice-cold.

"You're firing me." I'm glad it doesn't come out as a question. I don't like asking questions. I don't like waiting for answers.

"It's technically a lay-off."

"Firing," I repeat, my voice even.

He sighs. "Since you are in the process of…not being an official member of the khalasar, you cannot remain in this position." He rocks forward. "I know it's short notice."

I stare past him, unblinking, at the beige wall and the dirty window with the bugs stuck in the screen. A spider hovers near its egg sac. "I gave birth… to the Khal's dead son," I say, my lips barely moving. "I had to carry him, in my belly,  _knowing…_ I held his body in my arms. But I'm not a member of this khalasar."

Moro's face drops. I watch his cheek twitch. He swallows. "Dany," he says softly.

"With all due respect, you don't get to call me that anymore."

"This isn't my choice," he persists, all of his bravado melting away. "I was there with Drogo. I shared your pain. We all did—"

"Don't." I stand, smoothing my pants. "You kissed your daughter before work today. And then you kissed your wife. You can't  _touch_ my pain."

"I can't do anything about this. You know that. This is beyond me - this is Dothraki law."

"This is  _bullshit_ ," I snap, my teeth nearly bared.

He's silent for a moment, grabbing the pen again, turning it end over end on the desktop. And then he hardens, his facade solidifying before my very eyes.

"We won't make it official until tomorrow," he says, detached. "You can keep your insurance through the month that way."

I can only stare at him. "Thanks a lot."

* * *

"What are you going to do?" Missandei looks terrified, sitting on my ratty couch with the crumpled letter from Cersei Lannister,  _CEO,_ in her hand. She watches me with her big dark eyes as I move between the rooms of my flat, tossing odds and ends into a suitcase on the floor of the kitchenette.

"I'm going to the reading of the will." I drop a book on top of a ziplock bag full of makeup.  _Beauty's Release._

"But… what for? You got your inheritance." She scans the letter again. "What good is to go see these people? You said it yourself - they're  _evil._ "

I sigh, my hands on my hips. I glance around my apartment, half-seeing, barely thinking. "Maybe she'll give me a job."

"Oh  _Dan_ ," she gasps. "No. Not after what happened… with your dad and—"

"What else am I gonna do, Missy?" Exasperated, I let my hands fall limply to my sides. "I can't stay here. Next step is eviction. I'm not Dothraki - they made that so goddamn clear…"

She shakes her head, her lovely eyes so sad. "Stay with me and Grey for a while - off the res. And then buy that house on the plains, the one you always wanted."

"I can't do that."

"Why not? You're rich. You don't even need to work," she argues, rising up to her knees on the couch, impassioned.

She's right, of course; I'd never have to lift another finger if that was what I wanted. But I look down and make excuses, dance all around the truth. "That money has to last me the rest of my life. And besides, I don't think—" My voice suddenly cracks. I was always terrible at lying. I fight my tears with everything I've got. "I can't stay here. I just can't."

Missandei is on her feet, rushing to me. She puts her arms around me, holds me tight to her tall, thin frame. I feel her chin resting on top of my head. I wipe away my tears, rub them off my cheeks. I haven't cried in months. I hate it. I hate it more than anything.

I wrap my arms around her waist and hug her back. I take a deep, shaking breath.

"Do you want me to pack the rest of this place up, after you leave?" She asks, her voice a whisper.

"No. Just burn it," I say into her sweatshirt, half-serious.

She laughs softly. "What about your car? Burn that too? Call a chop shop?"

I shake my head. "I'll leave it with you, send for it later... if I decide to stay."

"And the boys?"

We let go of each other. My hand trails down her arm, and our pinky fingers link. We look at the illuminated aquarium next to the window. All three monitor lizards are laid out under the red heat lamp, basking on a rocks. They're still babies, still eating crickets. They need me.

"I'm bringing them."

* * *

Early the next morning, I make the drive to my old home.

The sun rises in front of me, painting the plains and the tabletop mountains shades of pink and gold. The canyonlands are clear and imposing in the distance; their many layers of sandstone and quartz and fossils telling the story of time. Gambel oaks and chokecherry brush grow up alongside the narrow road, strong and hardy from last year's wildfires. Far away on the horizon, some hundred miles off, I can see a dark, rolling storm, moving fast and headed east.

I squint into the sunlight and roll down my windows to breathe in the dry, chilly air of the desert at dawn.

If I believed in god, I imagine he'd live out here, on the mesa.

I'll miss this, I think. If I miss anything at all… it'll be this.

* * *

Qotho answers the door. His eyes are barely open and he leans heavily on the frame, dwarfing the entryway.

"Hey."

"Hey." My voice is weak and tired. I just want to get this over with. "Is he around?"

Qotho moves so I can cross the threshold. Inside, the smell of pot and beer and cheap men's cologne is overpowering. I cough and glance around the living room that used to be ours.

He's put a flatscreen in front of the bay windows. It's huge. It's ridiculous. It sits on the floor, with a moving blanket under it, waiting for an entertainment center he probably won't ever buy.

Someone is asleep in one of the leather recliners, their feet sticking out from under a Dothraki afghan. There's a basket of clothes spilled across the microfiber sectional I picked out two years ago. The carpet we had replaced just before I left is spotted with suspicious, dark stains, and from where I stand in the foyer, I can see that he hasn't kept up the polish on wood floors in the kitchen and dining room.

"He's out back," Qotho says, stumbling down the hallway of the guest wing.

I take a deep breath and walk through the house, grabbing a crushed can of Blue Ribbon and dropping it in the bag of trash as I pass.

* * *

Under the brilliant red light of morning, Drogo breaks a stallion.

The horse rages around him in the low-fenced ring, bucking and kicking furiously. The violence of its fight stirs up a cloud of dust - the air hangs with grit and dirt. He watches the horse, his eyes narrowed, his hair loose and wild down his bare back. His hands wind a rope carefully, as sensitive to the angry beast as a seismograph, measuring each pull and slack. He moves with it, completely and totally present.

The stallion tires for a moment and canters around him in a wide circle. Its shining black sides heave as it pants.

I walk up to the rails, farthest from them, and wait.

Drogo speaks to it in a low rumbling voice, using the oldest words in his peoples' language. The horse stops circling…it slows and snorts, shaking it's beautiful mane.

Gently, Drogo winds the rope around his knuckles once more, drawing the animal ever closer. He'll break this horse. He's broken hundreds.

I rest my chin on my hands and feel the splintered wood on my palms. I remember, very clearly, falling off one of his horses when we were first dating; I broke my ankle and he sat with me in the hospital for hours, waiting to see an on-call surgeon. I was too terrified ride again.

In retrospect, I made a piss-poor Khaleesi.

"Good morning," he says to me, finally acknowledging my presence. The stallion trots around him.

My heart beats hard and fast in my poor chest. I don't know why it upsets me so to see him, to hear him. "Hi," I manage.

"I heard about your job," he says. The horse snorts, pawing at the ground. "I'm sorry."

I nod. "Me too." I put my foot up on the first rung of the fence. "I'm leaving."

He's silent, staring intently at the animal. But he hears me. I know he does.

"Tywin Lannister died. I'm going to King's Landing."

The panicked horse rears, circling again, passing between us. Drogo looks like a mirage in the dust.

"Those people are demons," he finally says, in Dothraki.

"I have no choice. I have to go home."

"You had many choices, Daenerys." He laughs, shaking his head. "I got the papers from your red witch. She brought them while I was eating  _dinner_."

"Melisandre is my  _divorce lawyer._  She's not a witch." I feel my temper flare. "Did you sign them?"

"She is a witch," he growls then. The horse startles and begins to buck again. He shouts over its noises. "She breaks the sacred vow. A  _witch."_

" _You_  broke the sacred vow!" I'm leaning over the fence before I can stop myself. I point at him. "You stopped loving me!"

"My son is dead!"

My heart drops into my stomach. Venom drips from every word that comes out of his mouth, out of his soul. Halfway to another barb, my mouth closes, and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

He blames me.

He blames my feeble, outsider body for what has happened. A Dothraki woman…surely…wouldn't have  _killed_ his son.

I knew, underneath everything, that he blamed me. I felt it every time he touched me, until the touching stopped. I heard it when he spoke to me, until the speaking stopped.

It has always hovered between us.

To finally hear it so plainly, though…it's like hearing from a nurse that my father died in a mental institution, all alone. It's like getting the call about Viserys, his body found in a trap house, surrounded by addicts who didn't even wait for his last breath before they stole everything he had.

Or perhaps it's more like the visit of two Marines, in the middle of a somber summer night…asking me to  _please sit down_ , before telling me what I already knew about Rhaegar. Covered in a flag someplace overseas.

My vision blurs with tears.

If I am responsible for the death of our son…who is responsible for the death of our marriage?

He tosses the rope aside and stallion gallops around him in endless, dizzying circles. "You mutilated yourself," he continues in Dothraki. "You did not even ask. You did not think of  _me_." His fist thumps his chest.

"It's my body!" I yell, and I'm crying, I'm weeping, I'm shaking with a year's worth of untouched agony. It explodes out of me, pours from me. "I won't do it! I won't go through it! How—" I choke. "How could you ask me to do that again?"

"I married…a whole woman," he says through the haze. "I loved a whole woman. But you…are not a whole woman anymore."

Tears run rivulets down my hot cheeks. I stare at him, no longer sobbing. And I realize he wanted me to be another broken horse at the end of his rope.

I feel my heart turning to stone under the desert sun.

I will not  _break_  like one of his animals. I will not  _break_ like the Targaryens before me.

I will not break at all.

"I came to tell you," I say, the sharp words boiling up from a deep and untouched place inside me, "that any further conversation, between us…should go through my  _red witch._  Her number's on the divorce papers you need to sign."

I turn away from the fence and leave the ranch for the last time.

* * *

I watch the mesa disappear in my rear view mirror.

I wipe my face, and turn the music up as loud as it will go.  _You Can't Always Get What You Want._

I'll stop at that little taco stand I used to love when I lived out this way. I'll eat  _al pastor_  and  _lengua_ until I want to throw up.

And then I'll get on a plane…and fly back to the place I've been running from for four years.

Whatever it is Cersei Lannister has waiting for me, I know I'll survive it.

I've fucking survived everything else.

* * *

 


	2. Dragon Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter! It's great to get that kind of feedback, and we hope you keep enjoying the story!

[](https://www.flickr.com/gp/160099752@N07/4D0Gpd)

_Hair is grey and the fires are burning_  
_So many dreams on the shelf_  
_You say I wanted you to be proud_  
_I always wanted that myself_

_-"Winter", Tori Amos_

* * *

It has been four years since I have seen King's Landing.

It has been four years since I have seen this building.

I step out of the black cab, cradling a little plastic aquarium, and look up to the skyline. I remember the shining steel and the great glass windows. I remember the name  _Dragon Glass_ in silver letters. I remember the revolving door and the polished marble floors just inside.

I remember the building my father, and his father, and his father built.

It does not feel like coming home.

The lobby feels strange. It's cavernously large, and eerily quiet. The place seems dark, even with the wide windows that overlook the sidewalk...even with the sleek new decor. Furnishings that were once deep crimson and shadowy black have been replaced with burnished reds and golds.

Despite the colors of fire, it is cold here.

My heart flutters.

In the very middle of the enormous lobby, the crowning relic of my youth is still displayed: a great skull, pale bone pocked with fossils and time, sharp teeth nearly six inches long, and eye sockets big enough for a little white-haired girl with an overactive imagination to have climbed through.

_Tyrannosaurus rex._

She is one of the most complete skulls in the world, only missing tooth 18 and tooth 19. She had been a wedding present to my parents, excavated from the sandy, fabled dunes of Dorne by a great Martell prince. I stand before her again, and feel her power as I did when I was a child. She was a  _true_  dragon, reigning over the earth before lowly humans had even climbed out of the primordial sludge.

"Look," I whisper to the aquarium, still tucked under my arm. My three little monitors are quiet and listless from the cold trip. I turn back to the skull and reach out, my fingertips nearly grazing the snout -

"You can't touch that, ma'am," comes a voice across the lobby.

I yank my hand back, as if the scolding burned it. I swallow and look around. There's only one other person here - a boy, perhaps a little younger than me, sitting behind the reception desk. He has blond hair and a hard, stern frown.

My footsteps echo off the high ceilings as I walk towards him, sheepish and small.

"Can I help you?" He barely glances up from his computer now. He wears a name tag - Lancel.

"I'm here to see Cersei Lannister." The name feels strange on my tongue. It's like a whisper, no matter how loudly I speak.

"Do you have an appointment?" He looks from a memo back to the monitor, typing without missing a beat.

"She sent me a letter. An invitation."

He licks the tip of his finger, and flips a page in the memo. "An invitation to what?"

"The uh...the…" I stammer, setting the aquarium on the desk and digging through the messenger bag slung across my chest. "Reading of Mr. Lannister's will."

_I can't find the fucking letter. Where's the goddamn letter?_

"And you are?" He clears his pretty throat and stares up at my struggle, unblinking. I watch his eyes fall on my boys in their travel tank, and then his graceful hand creeps slowly across his desk towards a red security button.

"Daenerys Targaryen."

His cold gaze flickers up to me. He stares at my face. "Targaryen?"

My jaw tenses. "Do you want to see an I.D.?"

"I didn't know…that there were any Targaryens left…" he says strangely, reaching now for the phone instead.

I sigh, rapping on the counter. "Just one."

He nods at me, glaring at my hair, his eyes narrowing. He cradles the phone between his shoulder and mouth. "There's a...girl here, who showed up for Ms. Lannister. About the estate. Targaryen." He clutches the phone then. "She says she received an invitation. Yes. Yes, I'm sure...no, I don't...I know. I  _know."_ He smiles tightly, cruelly for whoever is at the end of the line. "Just...just check for me, please?"

He replaces the receiver, exhaling heavily. He looks up at me again, and nods towards a cluster of leather seating. "Her assistant will be down shortly."

I give him a tight-lipped smile, and walk back across the lobby. The couch squeaks a little as I sit. I lean back against the cushions, eyes scanning the room I remember racing through as a little girl, while Rhaegar shouted at me to slow down. To  _behave._

I never listened.

It's much more...sleek...than it was when my father had control of the company. Everything is sharp and measured and precise. The sofas and chairs are perfectly angled. There's a vibrant ficus next to me, and an espresso machine sits on a little end table with cups and creamer and honey and sugar. The air smells faintly of coffee.

A monitor against one wall flashes with market prices. Another showcases their annual report:  _...our newest mining operations for FY 300. As leaders in the diamond sector, Dragon Glass is committed to the development of innovative…_

I pick at the neat, tight stitching on the arm of the couch. I cross my ankles. I uncross them. I bounce my leg.

I don't like waiting.

 _Lancel_  glances nervously at me now and again. I hear the clatter of his keyboard. The phone rings several times, and he answers each call with the same looping script and crisp voice -  _Dragon Glass, how may I help you, hold please._

I sigh. I twist the strap of my bag. I play with the golden tassels of a throw pillow on the couch.

 _I shouldn't have come here._ Missy told me it was a mistake. I told  _myself_ it was a mistake. Even as I sat in the airplane, resting with my forehead pressed against the little oval window, watching the clouds rolling beneath me...I told myself this wasn't a good idea.

I tell myself again now, my mind on the same kind of looping script as Lancel's.

_Dragon Glass, how may I help you, hold please._

_This is a mistake._

_Dragon Glass..._

Again, and again, and again.

A door across the lobby finally opens.

The girl who hurries through it is tall and pale and has hair like autumn leaves. Her eyes are wide and blue. They volley from the receptionist, to me, and back again.

He scowls at her.

"Miss Targaryen?" she asks, and her wide blue eyes change from worried to warm. She slips on a pretty customer service smile. She crosses the room in several long strides.

I stand as she reaches me.

 _Sansa,_ her name tag says.  _Assistant._ The Dragon Glass logo glints black in the overhead lights.

"We're so glad you're here," she says. The smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She looks nearly as tired as I feel. "I'll show you upstairs."

* * *

"I'm very sorry you had to wait." Sansa walks quickly, clutching a notebook to her chest. "Lancel hasn't been with us long. I'm sure that's the last thing you needed after your flight."

I smile halfheartedly. The halls are empty, and the light slants through tall windows. She leads me towards the elevator, reaching out and pressing the button.

"I hope it was a nice trip." Her eyes are on me. I watch the number change above the elevator. "I hate airports. I haven't flown in...well, a few years. It can be such a nightmare."

"Yes," I say. I nod.

She makes a little noise at the back of her throat. I hear pages rustling as she flips through the notebook, pretending to look at something.

The elevator beeps as it passes each floor of the tower.

"It's very terrible, about Mr. Lannister," she says. I feel her eyes on me again. "I mean, it was peaceful. His family...well, most of them, they were all there. But still. These things are always awful."

"They are," I say, glancing at her.

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She purses her lips, eyes flickering up to the bright red number seven on the display, then down to the floor. She clicks her pen five times.

"Have you been with the company long?" I ask. I don't  _want_ to ask, but she's trying. She raises her eyes, and her lips turn up in a smile.

"Only two years," she says. "Or three, really, if you count the internship. It's been such an amazing opportunity. I'd never even been to King's Landing before then, honestly. I know that sounds ridiculous. But my father helped me land the position, and-"

She's sincerely friendly, once I get her talking. A little too friendly. She chatters about college and her family and the city, and I nod, the strange false smile pressed tight to my lips.

My father never had an assistant. Not for long. He'd say they were incompetent. He'd say he couldn't trust them. He'd say they were liabilities, and he'd fire them one after the other.

I think he'd hoped one of us would stay. Rhaegar. Viserys. Me.

A trio of disappointments.

But here I am. Back where he wanted me. Back where I swore I'd never be.

The elevator reaches the first floor, and the doors open quietly. Sansa motions for me to enter first. She steps in behind me.

"Ms. Lannister sends her apologies, of course," she says, as she leans forward and presses a button. The doors close with a soft chime. "She didn't expect her meeting to run over as long as it has. And she's very eager to meet you...but you'll want to rest a little, I'm sure, and-"

"I'm not going to see her?" I turn to her, frowning.

"Oh. Um." She glances down at the notebook again, like the answer's etched on the cover. Her tongue darts out over her bottom lip. "Not...not yet. She's very busy today, meeting with the estate attorney. But it shouldn't take much longer." She clicks her pen again.

She's very nervous. She seems too soft for this place.

Too soft for Cersei Lannister, CEO.

I bite my tongue, staring at the little orange glow of the button she's pressed.

Floor fifty-eight.

I have been to floor fifty-eight a hundred times. A thousand times.

I wonder what it will feel like, when the doors slide open, and the entrance to the penthouse stares back at me. The place where I grew up. The place I called home.

I swallow, watching the numbers climb higher as the elevator rises.

* * *

The suite hasn't changed much.

I'm not sure it's changed at all, really. Sansa leads me through the doors - an elaborate dragon carved on each - and I'm standing in a room full of white and black. Gleaming dark marble floors, sleek low-profile furniture, strange empty walls that slice apart the open space like exhibits in a museum.

This penthouse  _is_ a museum.

A museum full of Targaryen ghosts.

"There's Perrier in the refrigerator," Sansa is saying, a few steps ahead of me. "They can have it fully stocked by this evening, if you give me a list of what you'd like."

She stops near the counter that separates the kitchen from the main living space. The countertop seems nearly a mile long, heavy black stone flecked with mica, and a single empty fruit bowl sits on it, a piece thrown by a well-known artist whose name now escapes me.

The balcony to the left runs the entire length of the penthouse, overlooking the city. A hall to the right leads to an office and a cluster of bedrooms. The floating stairs before me lead up to the enormous master suite. I look up - the height of the ceilings is still staggering, dizzying, unbelievable.

I know this place. This cathedral of a home.

I know it like I have never left it.

I know how the light will look as the sun sets and the city turns gold. I know how the shadows will stretch across the floor. I know how hot the water in the entry level bathroom runs. I know which marble tile has a hairline crack.

There's a fire burning in the glass hearth that splits the formal dining room and the great open space of the parlor. I watch the gas-lit flames dance orange and yellow and blue, casting odd shapes on the shimmering onyx floors.

Sansa is still talking. "...but there's also a new place just down the block with great shawarma. Or that's what I've heard. I haven't ever had time to go…"

"I think...I'm just going to rest for a while," I say. My voice is not as strong as it should be. It echoes hollowly from the walls and the ceilings.

"Oh, right. Of course." From the corner of my eye, I see her nod emphatically. "Make yourself at home. Mr. Lannister...his son, Tyrion, I mean...he'll be up to see you as soon as the meeting ends. I know he's eager to-"

"Yes." I barely hear her. I step forward, lost in the echo of things from years ago. Rhaegar's deep, generous laugh. Viserys's snide little quips. My father's cold, steely orders. My mother's…

I don't know her voice.

I close my eyes. I remember the portrait of her - the one my father hung in the master suite, on the wall that faces the red rising sun.

Four years ago, I disowned this place. Ripped up my roots and washed away the dirt beneath my nails. Told myself I would never return - that I didn't belong in these halls that felt like a crypt. That I would find a new home in the dry breeze and waving grass of the Mesa.

I told myself that there was nothing here for me but loss.

I don't know if I was wrong.

"My card is there on the counter…just let me know if you need anything," Sansa says, very softly. She's too friendly, and too eager, but she's smart. Smart enough not to say anything else.

I hear her footsteps trail away.

I hear the door closing.

I hear a siren wailing in the distance. I hear a pigeon cooing on the balcony. I hear the ambient hum of the building beneath me, the city below me.

I hear the thrum of my own pulse, steady and solemn. A small, fragile sound.

I know I am the last of my family. I know that I am no longer a part of this place. I know that I am not a part of any place. I know that I am alone.

I have known this for years, and never truly felt it.

Standing in this place now...standing here  _again_...it settles in my blood like silt on a riverbed.

* * *

There's a knock on the penthouse door.

I'm sitting on the couch. My back is ramrod straight. My hands are folded in my lap.

I'm not sure how long I've been here. Less than an hour, I think. I have not rested. My eyes are tired and my body is sore. I've been staring at the walls, the windows, the fireplace. Staring and staring until things grew blurry.

I'm not sure I could rest here even if I wanted to.

"Come in," I say, tilting my head towards the door.

I should stand.  _I have come here to stay,_  I remind myself. I should be gracious, and friendly, and professional.

I do not move.

The door opens. A man clears his throat behind me.

"Miss Targaryen," he says. "It's been too long."

I don't know much about Tyrion Lannister. He wasn't involved in the company under my father. His own father rarely talked about him. But sometime in the last four years, he has been given a position as chief marketing officer. It was a line in one of the many letters I received and skimmed - a brief point on a memo.

"I hope you're well," he continues, shutting the door behind him. I stand then, and I turn, watching as he glances around the penthouse. His eyes drift from the great windows to a long mural of grays and blacks to the sprawling kitchen. He gives a little nod, assessing the place. "And comfortable."

"I am. Thank you." The words are odd and stilted. My thoughts drag too slowly, stumbling behind me. This place has me hanging crooked, scrabbling to hold on.

I tighten my grip on myself.

"I'm very sorry," I say, after a moment of uneasy silence. "About your father."

"I appreciate the sentiment." He seems to take that as an invitation, walking forward into the living area. "It's no great loss for the world, though. I assure you."

I'm not sure if I'm meant to laugh at that.

I know Tywin Lannister was... _difficult._ He worked as the COO of Dragon Glass for nearly twenty years, before his promotion. He was shrewd and sharp and never smiled. He drank black coffee and skipped breakfast each morning. He sat in the corner during meetings, scanning the faces of everyone in the room. He kept his office blinds pulled closed.

He was one of the few men whose advice my father would heed.

Tyrion seems oblivious to my lack of response. He stands beside one of the armchairs - leather, low-backed, cold metal armrests - and keeps looking up, looking to the side, looking all around.

Looking at me.

"It's funny," he says, eyes locked on mine, "but seeing you back here, now...it seems right. Fitting." He takes a seat in the armchair, grimacing, trying to shift his weight into a comfortable position. He frowns at the strange armrests. "I was going to say that this place suits you, but I'm not sure it would be a compliment."

I feel the faintest flicker of a smile at that.

"You've terrified her, you know," he says abruptly. "I've never seen her…  _afraid_ , of anything really."

I start. My eyes are wide. "I'm… I'm sorry, I've terrified  _who_?"

"Cersei." He hops down, walking around the low chaise lounge instead, running his hand down the cushion, before taking a seat across from me. He leans back, apparently more satisfied with this option.

I laugh. " _What?_  Why?"

"Because you're Daenerys Targaryen," he says matter-of-factly.

"Some days, yes," I reply, looking down at my hands.

"She believes…you're here to contest her rise to CEO." He stares at me pointedly.

"Oh." I glance up from my hands. "You can tell your sister that I don't know the first thing about diamonds. Or running…a billion dollar business," I say, gesturing around the penthouse. "And as you can see -"

He nods, and smiles.

"There are no lawyers hidden anywhere." I finally smile too.

"Just you…and the lizards," he says.

They're on the long, slate bar between the living room and the kitchen.

"Just me and the lizards," I echo. We watch them for a moment; they're perking up in the warmth. They'll be better once I set up their heat lamp.

"So then…Miss Targaryen…" I can tell he relishes the way the name rolls off his tongue. He pats his thighs. "Why  _are_  you in lovely King's Landing?"

"I just came for the reading. Of your father's will." I cross my ankles.

"Ah. Well," he inhales deeply. "You'll be waiting quite a while for  _that._ "

I frown. "Is it not…customary…for the Lannisters to distribute inheritance…" I stumble on the question, unsure of the polite way to say  _soon after death_. Their father had to have been cold in the ground by now.

"Oh no, nothing like that." He gazes out the wall of glass. Droplets of rain gather on the tall windows, blurring the image of the city. It feels like we're in the clouds. "Our brother, Jaime -"

"I remember." And I do. I remember exactly the way my young heart thundered in my chest at the sight of him - a rare thing, perhaps once a year, at a company retreat. Tall, athletic, blond. He was nearly Targaryen.

"Everyone remembers him," Tyrion sighs playfully, rolling his eyes. "It would appear, though, that he has forgotten us."

"What do you mean?" I lean forward, my chin resting on my hand.

Tyrion leans forward as well. There's an air of intrigue around him, as if everything he says will be the start of the most interesting story that's ever been told. I don't  _know_  Tyrion Lannister yet…but I adore him.

"Jaime came back from the war, the same one as -"

"Rhaegar," I finish for him. They both went in as officers. Only one made it home.

"May Rhaegar rest in peace." Tyrion touches his chest, just above his heart. "Jaime, as I'm sure you heard, lost his hand."

"Rebel forces?" I ask out of politeness, but I already know the story; it was harrowing enough to make the news. Torture and mutilation for over a month until he was finally liberated by a special forces team Tywin bought and paid for. Despite my personal misgivings about the Lannisters as a whole, I pitied Jaime. He seemed to be the only one of the bunch who knew real suffering.

"Yes, sadly. He was never quite the same after that. A shadow of himself."

I nod. "War changes everything."

"Indeed." He pauses, touches a finger to his lips. "After he came home...well, you know how it happens. Night terrors, unprovoked rages. Cersei and I…our father…we had no idea what to do. Jaime was lost."

I hum in sympathetic agreement.

"And then he found the Brotherhood Without Banners."

Brotherhood Without Banners - a  _contracted security group_ , internationally known for their less than savory assignments. "Mercenary work? That's what he's doing now?" I almost can't believe it.  _Almost_.

Tyrion is silent for a moment. "He's been gone since… last July? Our sources tracked him down in the Disputed Lands. He won't accept a call from either of us… and so all we can do is… _wait_."

"Wow." I don't know what to say. "I'm...so sorry."

Tyrion looks up, seeming to shake himself out of reverie. He gets down off the chaise lounge. "You're a wonderful listener, Miss Targaryen. I shouldn't have imposed on you like this. You must be exhausted."

I stand with him. "No…no, it's nothing. I'm glad for the company. Really."

He smiles up at me, warmly. He begins to walk towards the door; I follow. "In light of Jaime's absence… _and_  the delay of the reading," he says over his shoulder, "will you be heading back east?"

I hesitate. We both stop and stare at each other in the stark entryway. "That's part of…well, I wondered if…" I wring my hands. The neat little speech I'd rehearsed on the plane unravels. "I had hoped to speak with Cersei. About...finding a job. With Dragon Glass."

He crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. "A job?" he asks, his mouth turning up in a disarmingly crooked smile.

* * *


End file.
